Currency War

by Lawrence B. Lindsey

  “Mr. Chairman, you have a reputation for moving the logistics of heaven and earth when you want to get something done. I now know that it is fully deserved.”

  While it was true that Ben was obsessive-compulsive about logistics, that was not Li’s meaning. He was acknowledging that Ben had figured out the code and therefore understood the urgency. Ben decided they were fully on the same page and that everything else needing to be said should be a private side conversation. “I do so look forward to seeing you in London for dinner on Friday. Thank you for your suggestion that we speak.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Please notify me when your plans are set in stone.”

  “Of course.”

  Ben punched a button on the phone. “Peggy, get me Bernadette, then check on flight availability for London, departing Thursday night, returning Sunday. Two tickets please.” When he explained everything, he felt confident that Bernadette wouldn’t pass this one up and it wouldn’t be because she wanted to do research on some new book.

  “Of course, Mr. Chairman. You should know that the President’s chief of staff called while you were on with Governor Li. I will get him on the line now.”

  Lombardi skipped the pleasantries. “Ben, turn on your television—any cable news. Not the one you market junkies watch, the kind the rest of us do.”

  Ben’s set automatically went to CNBC, but what Roger wanted him to see was important for market junkies too. The female reporter stood to the side of what looked like a mob scene, replete with a long line of police holding nightsticks.

  “We are here at the Walmart in Parsippany, New Jersey, where a crowd of almost four hundred protesters are confronting police. Apparently they made an attempt to enter the store en masse a few minutes ago but police blocked their way. The store manager called the police when the early shift was starting but workers were unable to get in the store because of the crowd. There were a number of scuffles and at least six protesters were taken into custody.”

  She turned to her left and the camera panned to reveal a squat, balding man with a USA FIRST button on his lapel. “I have here Joe Napolitano, head of the SEIU local, a group that is part of the protest. Mr. Napolitano, what is going on here?”

  The man spoke in a typical New Jersey accent. “We are here to exercise our First Amendment rights to protest the intolerable conditions facing Chinese workers and Walmart’s support for that system. Walmart is a big importer of the goods made by people being exploited by the system. We want everyone to know that when they shop at Walmart, they are helping to oppress millions of people in China.”

  “Mr. Napolitano, apparently there were some arrests earlier.”

  “We are here assembling peacefully. We attempted to go into the store to make our feelings heard. Walmart is famous for having a greeter when you go in, but we were greeted by police carrying nightsticks! Is this America or is our government working with Walmart and other big corporations to make us more like China?”

  “How long will you be protesting?”

  “As long as it takes for the executives at Walmart to realize what they are doing and stop supporting an oppressive regime.”

  Ben hit the mute button, thinking, Here we go again. It was exactly what he and Bernadette had been discussing the other night as they watched television. As Lombardi had said, “Turn on any cable news channel.” The story was so scripted he could have written the rest of the day’s broadcast. “Roger, you didn’t call me because you’re a fan of Walmart. What’s the story?”

  “This is happening all across the country. The President is worried that we may have to accelerate the schedule. At some point he is going to have to say something.”

  “You can figure that part out. I don’t know how I can accelerate things very much on my end. I have the FOMC meeting tomorrow and Wednesday morning. They have to be briefed. I’ll be on the Hill Wednesday afternoon and Thursday briefing the leadership and relevant committee chairs. Don’t think the President can say much of substance about our plans until that has happened. The law-and-order situation is another matter.

  “One other thing. I just hung up with Governor Li. He requested a meeting in London this weekend and I am going to go. There are a few interesting details that make this a compelling meeting that I would like to fill you and Hector in on. Can you set something up this afternoon?”

  “I’m sure you have good reasons,” said Lombardi. “What do I tell the President about the effect these protests might have on the economy?”

  “What? ‘We respect the constitutional rights of the American people to peacefully assemble to seek redress of their grievances.’ Why does the President need to comment? At this point this is a foreign policy issue. China should know that over here it is the people who are sovereign, not the party and not the government.”

  “Okay, no comment. But off the record, what is the effect of the protests?”

  “At this point, minor,” Ben said. “Insignificant. The much bigger question will be what the effect will be on the economy if our battle with China over currency and capital flows does not go our way. We are in a high stakes game, no question about it. I don’t mean to sound too cynical, but the protests probably help our cause. On the other hand, they doubtless might lead to a less rational response by our adversaries. This is not something they know how to handle in a mature fashion at home or abroad. Look at their responses to protests in Tibet and Hong Kong, on their treatment of their own people during the bank run.”

  “Thank you. I’ll arrange a time for you to talk to the President and Hector.”

  Ben hung up and called for Peggy. “I need someone on staff to monitor these protests very carefully,” he told her. “Number. Tone. Press coverage. Also, would you ask the economics team to start doing model runs of various scenarios for an increase in the scale of protests up to and including a full boycott of Chinese products?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Things are backing up on the schedule for the week and this trip to London is not going to help. We will make it work, but please, please, don’t add much more.” Ben took the admonishment in stride. He had no intention of making his life any busier, but the world might.

  * * *

  Deng Wenxi was pacing the floor of his office to burn off nervous energy after doing fifty pushups. It was an old military habit he had adopted at his more advanced age when the adrenalin was really flowing. The pushups had barely winded him, and they gave him a healthy way of burning off some of the excess energy along with reminding himself how fit and powerful he still was.

  He was winning. That meant China was winning. He knew his plan was the right one. Chaos in the capitalists’ markets was always a good sign. But the Americans were proving to be more resilient than he imagined. And he knew the reason why. The Red Ninja. He hadn’t counted on her resurfacing after all this time. She had been a thorn in China’s side as had her father. Now she had managed to get hired by CIA, become best friends with the wife of the American president, and was married to the chairman of the American central bank.

  Deng did not believe in coincidences. She had planted herself deep inside the American government through long and careful planning, likely with some help. Like her father, she had close ties to the Spensley family and their current front organization—the Churchill Society.

  The Spensleys had first come to prominence after the War of the Roses when they used their money connections in Amsterdam and Florence to help bankroll the Tudor ascendancy. They had been amply rewarded for their efforts and for nearly 600 years, someone in that family had been circling around in the center of power in London. They made out like bandits from the Opium Wars and the unequal treaties imposed on China and had been at the top of some of the enormous trading companies that had created Hong Kong. And it was in Hong Kong that Ian Murphy, the Red Ninja’s father, had been most dangerous.

  One thing was for certain. The Red Ninja had to be neutralized and hopefully eliminated. With h
er gone, the entire network driving American policy would be decapitated and collapse.

  He had given much thought to this problem. There could be no Chinese fingerprints on the operation and certainly none of his. Taking out someone as highly placed as Bernadette Coleman was tantamount to an act of war. His Politburo colleagues would view him as reckless for even thinking such a thing. He would have to use his own network.

  Deng picked up the phone, a scrambled one that only the disciplinary wing of military intelligence would intercept. He had limited knowledge of English, but one phrase he did know was one of his signature codewords in his global network of connections.

  “I’m feeling like playing a little blackjack this weekend. Care to join me?”

  There was no need for him to wait for an answer. Acceptance was automatic.

  He then sent a long text in Mandarin. Would you remind me of the odds in blackjack? I have forgotten the probabilities for 13 against a face card and 17 against a face. Also, would you calculate for me how to play against a nine, a four, and a six when I am showing anything between a 12 and an 18. And there’s a side bet. If a Queen is showing on the board and I have two Queens in my hand, what are the odds the dealer pulls a Queen? A double match pays 1,000 to one and 5,000 to one if it is Queens. It is called Get the Lucky Lady.

  Deng began pacing again. This time there was a faint a smile on his lips. He had just ordered something as hard as that four Queen double match.

  First, he had Li in check. He always sensed that Li was a sentimentalist and in him he had found his trump card. Second, he had played that card to gain Li’s participation in his current gambit—removing Bernadette Coleman from the picture.

  Even better, he would be in a remote place at the right time, so no fingers would be pointed his way. But it would also constitute a means of making the payoff for the Get. Priding himself on his own cleverness, Deng dropped to the ground and did fifty more pushups.

  Yes, I haven’t lost any of my touch, he thought as he completed his set.

  * * *

  Renee DeAngeles and Mark Swift were huddled around a small conference table with four other senior members of the team, glued to the television. They kept the sound off, knowing from the start what the commentary would be like. The media always liked an underdog.

  Mark summed it up. “So far we are having our way in the media. We can accelerate the number of protests, but that will only hold us for another forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Eventually we will become yesterday’s news. If we are going to keep our momentum going, we need to do something different and more dramatic.”

  A man with a long gray beard and his remaining gray hair tied in a ponytail raised his hand. Everyone knew him as Captain Bob, one of the lead actors in Greenpeace. Mark acknowledged him, and he stood.

  “Speaking from experience,” he said, “a private blockade would do that. We could assemble a four or five boat flotilla by the end of the week. The technique is tried and true. Used it against oil tankers and the megalith transporters. Also blocked the annual seal hunt in Newfoundland. We simply find a ship loaded with Chinese goods headed for the Port of Long Beach and surround it. Make it impossible for them to move. They will send out a distress signal, but we will be just outside of territorial waters. Not much the Coast Guard can actually do.

  “Only other thing we need is television coverage. We can put our pet CNN reporter on board one of our boats and use the ship’s satellite connection to get the story home. The networks will send their camera crews out on helicopters. Makes for a much more dramatic picture. Full view of the blockade. We might even try some ramming and a faux attempted boarding when the copters are around. And we want to time it so it will be the talk of the Sunday shows.”

  Renee gave an uneasy shrug. “That image should work, yes. But it will make the folks on my side of the spectrum nervous. Your plan covers the left’s flank, but the retailers and others with goods on that boat will mount a media counteroffensive. You may not like it but interfering with trade will upset a lot of folks. The word piracy comes to mind. We need to generate a powerful outrage against China on the right as well, in a way that won’t interrupt your coverage but will create a follow-on story that will prevent any backlash against your fun and games at sea.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Mark said. “What does your side really care about? Besides money, I mean?” The words came with a smile showing he intended to be jocular, not serious.

  “Nothing wrong with money,” Renee said. “You lefties certainly like to tax it to spend on your pet causes. But you’re right; it is kind of passionless. A diplomatic incident of some sort might work well. Mark, how’d you like to spend some time in a Hong Kong jail cell? You’d be out in forty-eight hours, tops. They’re still very British about it. No rubber hoses, no bullets in the back of the head. A lot of sleep deprivation and some pretty in-your-face interrogation. Just enough to appease Beijing that you have been punished without going to court. And although it is a Special Administrative Region, there will be representatives of the Politburo behind the glass, watching carefully and deciding when to release you.”

  “Typical fascist pig,” Mark said. “Always willing to sacrifice someone else to do your dirty work. Still, I’m intrigued.”

  “The Liberty Lobby as well as our friends in Taiwan do believe in free speech,” Renee continued. “They would be prepared to come to your defense. And Fox News, National Review, and The Wall Street Journal editorial page will all make a big deal out of it.

  “My idea is a mass protest at which you are the featured speaker in Central. It will be a big deal locally and certainly picked up by all the mainstream media. A little flamboyant on the rhetoric, something which is hardly out of character for you. Chinese sweatshops, worker oppression, shooting strikers. Time for folks to rise up, yadda, yadda, yadda. You won’t even need a written text.

  “They will make the appearance of trying to extract information from you even though they know you have none to give. Names of co-conspirators. We are all safely over here and have no travel plans to China. Resist, then when you can’t take it anymore, give them whatever you need to appease them. Sponsors in Hong Kong? Hardly worth asking, the local dissident movement. Members of the legislative council will all be there, but they really can’t touch them. Plans? To convince the Chinese to stop their economic war against America, the workers both in China and around the planet, the destruction of the environment, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

  “Not exactly my idea of a good time,” Mark said. “I’m not sure.”

  “No, not a good time,” Renee said. “But at your age, you’re still young enough to withstand interrogation. It’s not going to be bamboo slivers under your fingernails or waterboarding. Sleep deprivation, with a slap on the face or a bucket of water to revive you. Hong Kong authorities aren’t beyond the use of psychedelic drugs. Maybe get put in a sloped room with disorienting patterns on the walls. Worst case scenario, mild to moderate PTSD, but we’ve got some great shrinks in our ranks who could make short work of it.”

  “You don’t understand me,” Mark said. “By ‘I’m not sure’ I mean, ‘What’s in it for me?’ ”

  Renee frowned. “A little out of character for you, isn’t it?”

  “You’re not the one who is going to be interrogated.”

  “Then let me put it this way.” Renee closed in on him. “Publicity. Your name will be known in the household of everyone with a cause, the guy who went the extra mile for his clients, a guy who is connected. The kind of guy we need to know. We need on our side.

  “In short, you spend a little time in hell, and when you come out, you’re set. Your reputation, your business. You’ll have bonafides like few others in the industry. You can write your own ticket. The kind of publicity money can’t buy.”

  Mark thought about it. “Since you put it that way,” he said, “I’m in. Anything for the cause.”

  * * *

  Bernadette sat up with a jolt as the
car pulled up to the gate at the CIA. She had never heard of CIA being picketed before, at least not since the Vietnam War.

  Webb hit the button to send down the privacy screens. “Sorry, ma’am, but this is going to get a bit tricky.”

  “You’re in charge.” She thought about trying to make light of the situation, but then she saw the television cameras. A gray-haired woman standing at the forefront of the mob. Spotting her attention through the rear view mirror, Webb said, “I can focus one of the car’s remote mics on the gaggle of reporters if you wish, ma’am.”

  “Please, yes.” Bernadette peered through the privacy blinds to watch even though the view was blurred.

  The older woman was a pro, playing the part of a retired senior citizen quite well. Her hand gestures were too perfect.

  “They took my oldest son in Vietnam. Now they’re stealing my money. My retirement nest egg. You can’t live on Social Security alone. My late husband and I toiled all our lives to build for our retirement and now the Chinese are out to take that away from us.”

  What the hell is she talking about, Bernadette thought. She’s gotten the Vietnamese confused with the Chinese. And no one is stealing her money. Then she realized that the woman had made herself appear older than she really was. Perhaps by ten years, maybe more. No one was going to press a woman in her late seventies on her memory, let alone a sympathetic reporter.

  “I had my money where my broker said I should,” she ranted, again too perfectly. “He called it ‘global diversified.’ Last month I had almost $200,000 in it; now it is under $150,000. We all know it’s the Chinese who are doing this to us. The President even said so the other night, not that I am a fan of his.”